


Pink in the red country

by Niedergeschlagen



Series: Tell the bees [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, M/M, Piningjolras, abundant knowledge of the geography of paris, brought to you by ya girl who went to paris a few weeks ago, this starts very in the middle of things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 12:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12771102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niedergeschlagen/pseuds/Niedergeschlagen
Summary: He has been in love with Grantaire — lovely, colourful Grantaire for weeks now. Months even, if he's generous (and he is.) He wants to crawl inside the radiant twirls of colour that surround Grantaire, he wants to live in a pocket of Grantaire's energy. He wants to be with Grantaire, but the intensity of his desire, of his yearning, terrifies him.





	Pink in the red country

The Dawn of Thursday, rosy-fingered, cloaked in the perfume of city smog, finds Enjolras sitting on the embankment of the Seine between Pont au Change and Pont Notre-Dame. He's eating pineapple chunks from a Tupperware container, they're still frozen, because of his faulty refrigerator, but it's all the same to him. It's getting cold, late October and all. He's been out for the past twenty-eight hours, roaming the streets, touching up on wards he's put up, talking to the _genii loci_ of the arrondissements. He likes the one in Montmartre the best.

Enjolras is exhausted, physically and spiritually. His phone tells him he's walked forty-six kilometres in the past hours. It's too much, even for him. But lately, he's been feeling too frantic to stay put. There has been an uncomfortable itch inside him, a fire under his tail. He gazes at the strong currents of the dark green river. The wind howls. A few joggers run past him, feet slapping the unforgiving concrete with force, with vim. They make Enjolras even more tired. The small of his back aches. He isn't sure if he can get up when he finally decides to. He would kill for a cup of coffee. And his bed in the fairly huge apartment he owns with Courfeyrac and Combeferre on Rue Barbette.

"Enjolras, θεοῖς ἐπιείκελος," says someone behind him. Enjolras's shoulders tense up, he knows that voice. He doesn't even have to turn around to see who it is. He feels the itch under his skin grow stronger, flare up, consume him.

"Good morning, Grantaire," he greets and stares ahead at Île de la Cité. "What did you just call me?"

"Oh, nothing bad," Grantaire says nonchalantly and sits down next to him. Enjolras tenses up some more, not because he finds Grantaire repulsive. On the contrary, lately, he's been on the edge, because he finds Grantaire attractive. He feels the burning desire to reach out to Grantaire, to trail intent into the sigils on Grantaire's skin, the fine silver swirls that sometimes peak from underneath his clothes. 

"Montparnasse told me you've been out all night," Grantaire says. He sounds nigh tentative, and Enjolras finds it impossible to even scoff. "They said you're wound too tight."

In his head, Enjolras curses Montparnasse for being a blabbermouth. He doesn't dislike the spirit, but they meddle far too much in the business of witches. He says: "I'm fine, thank you very much," and goes to stand up, but finds himself unable to. He's wobbly on his legs like a foal. Grantaire reaches a hand out to steady him. Enjolras takes it, grateful. The current of magical energy that passes between them shocks Enjolras awake. His legs regain their strength and the buzzing in his head vanishes.

"What did you do?" he asks.

Grantaire shrugs, looking a bit pale. There are circles under his eyes now. "What any responsible friend would do."

Enjolras says out of habit: "We aren't friends."

He regrets the words as they come stumbling out of his mouth, but he regrets, even more, when he sees Grantaire flinch away from him and turn his gaze towards the Notre-Dame. "No, we're not," he agrees.

" _No._ "

"No?"

Enjolras crouches beside Grantaire and takes him by the shoulder. He digs his thumb into the soft flesh above Grantaire's clavicle, forcing Grantaire to face him. "I shouldn't have said that. We are friends."

The city around them quiets down. He can hear no cars, no people, no wind, no waves. He singles his attention on Grantaire. Grantaire's eyes are the same muddy colour as the Seine. Enjolras drags his hand from his shoulder to his cheek. The contrast between his own brown skin and Grantaire's pale face with its blue veins is highlighted by the grey morning light.

Grantaire kisses him. It doesn't last for long, just a few heartbeats. Enjolras doesn't reciprocate, and Grantaire pulls away. He stands up and rubs his hands together.

"Right. I'm sorry."

* * *

Enjolras is angry with himself. He wanted to kiss Grantaire, still wants to. He doesn't understand why he didn't. He knows Grantaire is in love with him. Knows Grantaire has always been in love with him.

Enjolras gets angrier by the minute. He has been in love with Grantaire — lovely, colourful Grantaire for weeks now. Months even, if he's generous (and he is.) He wants to crawl inside the radiant twirls of colour that surround Grantaire, he wants to live in a pocket of Grantaire's energy. He wants to be with Grantaire, but the intensity of his desire, of his yearning, terrifies him. It's been years since Enjolras surrendered to his emotions, even longer since he craved something as hard as he craves this. 

He calls Grantaire at three in the morning.

He still hasn't slept, he's been pacing. His magic has been bleeding out of him, like blood. Trails of silver and gold adorn the walls and tables, along which he has dragged his hands.

The blue light that emanates from his phone is too bright. The phone itself is suspended in mid-air, floating on its own, twirling around slowly in front of Enjolras. He's using his hands to tie his locs back.

"It's three in the morning," says Grantaire, when he finally picks up. He doesn't sound like he was sleeping.

"I'm aware," Enjolras says. His hands sit useless and limp in his lap now. "Can I see you?"

"It's three in the morning," Grantaire repeats, carefully as if Enjolras isn't acutely aware of the time of the night. "Have you even slept?"

"No, but Grantaire, I need to see you."

The receiver rattles as Grantaire sighs.

"Yeah, alright. Your place or mine?"

"Mine, please." His voice sounds tight and tinny in his own ears. Gods know what Grantaire hears.

The line goes dead, and immediately Enjolras can sense the electricity in the air. The foreboding darkness of Grantaire's coming colours the sky black for a fraction of a second until it returns to the same pale yellow-brown smear of light pollution.

There is a kaleidoscope of butterflies in his room. He closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them again, Grantaire is standing in the middle of the swarm, surrounded by the unearthly glow the butterflies emit. They flutter about the room, wings beating out a soft rhythm until they fade into nothing. It's some of the most beautiful magic Enjolras has ever seen.

"Hey," Grantaire says. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and suddenly he looks much less graceful but much more human. "What's up?"

Enjolras beckons him closer. He's sitting on the window-sill, backlit by the Parisian night. This time he hears the cars on the streets, the people down on the streets, the chatter, and the laughter. Grantaire crosses the floor in an unsure shuffle of feet.

He tilts his head to the left. "I'm here now."

Slowly, Enjolras draws a line of silver down the bridge of Grantaire's nose with his forefinger. He touches his fingertips to Grantaire's cheekbone and leaves five golden smears there.

"I love you, you know," Enjolras says, lackadaisically, eyes trained on Grantaire's jaw, where he presses his fingers next. He cups Grantaire's throat gently, feels the pulse quicken as he speaks. "You love me, too."

"How do you know?" Grantaire asks, but his voice is thick. He swallows, and Enjolras feels his struggle to do so. He smiles and meets Grantaire's gaze.

"Like this," he says and kisses Grantaire softly.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a sentence in John Steinbeck's _Grapes of Wrath_ , which happens to be my favourite book in the whole world (thanks English class!) and I couldn't resist. The whole quote is: "The surface of the earth crusted, a thin hard crust, and as the sky became pale, so the earth became pale, pink in the red country and white in the grey country."
> 
> θεοῖς ἐπιείκελος is a Homeric epithet that means 'like to the Gods'. I think?


End file.
